


Sherlock Pond, or A Timely Rescue

by Libraflyter



Series: Sherlock Pond [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, How the Great Game Should Have Ended, Of course Sherlock is a Pond, Wholock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libraflyter/pseuds/Libraflyter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor Who/bbc!Sherlock crossover. What happened after The Great Game.  Response to a prompt on the bbc Sherlock meme http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/ .  Beta’d (thanks shadydave!), but not britpicked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Pond, or A Timely Rescue

Title: Sherlock Pond, or a Timely Rescue

Disclaimer: Invocation of the Muse, teh Moff, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, here.  Except with more crack.

Rating: PG

Summary: Doctor Who/bbc!Sherlock crossover. What happened after The Great Game.  Response to a prompt on the bbc Sherlock meme <http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/> .  Beta’d (thanks shadydave!), but not britpicked.  Cross-posted on Fanfiction.net

 

 

Sherlock pointed the gun at the bomb.  Moriarty grinned.  John held his breath.

 

“That’s your plan?” taunted the madman.  “Boom goes the dynamite, game over.  Boring!”

 

John swallowed hard and tried to keep track of what his friend was thinking.  He tensed, ready to – what was that sound?

 

A horrible grinding sound filled the air, like an aircraft engine having an asthma attack.  Sherlock started smirking.  His eyes remained locked with Moriarty’s as they plotted moves and counter-moves out against each other.  The grinding grew louder, and John struggled to concentrate.  The stress of the stand-off had to be getting to him, because it looked like a giant blue box was appearing over the pool. 

 

“Unexpected,” Sherlock said calmly, never wavering in his attention to Moriarty.  “Not unwelcome, but … brace yourself, John.”

 

John had no idea what to brace himself _for_ when the floating blue box’s door burst open and a man tumbled out – tall, skinny, and wearing a tweed suit and bow-tie.  He splashed down into the water.  “Hallo there, Sherlock.  Thought we’d stop by, see how you were doing.  University!  How exciting it must be, all that learning, all the new information brimming over in all those brilliant little human minds.” The man climbed out of the pool without missing a beat.  “You’re not at school anymore, are you?”  He peered closely at Sherlock, going from cheerful to angry in an instant.  “And you’re holding a gun.  Why are you holding a gun?  I don’t like guns.  You _know_ I don’t like guns.” 

 

“It’s not _my_ gun,” protested Sherlock.  “It’s John’s.  I’m only borrowing it.”

 

“Then why are you borrowing a gun?” demanded a new voice, with a distinctly Scottish accent.  A red-haired woman popped out of the box.  She looked anywhere between thirty-five and fifty and wore a giant blue cardigan that looked like fuzzy fish scales, along with a very short skirt.  She delicately jumped from the floating box to the poolside.  In the back of his mind, John noted she had the legs to pull off the look.  “We’ve talked about that, Sherlock.”

 

“Mummy, now really isn’t the time,” said Sherlock, gun still pointing at Moriarty.  “And would you get back in the TARDIS?”

 

“And why should she do that?” said another man, about the same age as ‘Mummy.’  He balanced lightly on the edge and leapt to the poolside.  The box teetered a moment and fell backwards with a splash.  There was a sound like an entire house’s worth of furniture crashing into each other, which continued for quite some time as the box bobbed up and down in the pool water. 

 

John studied the newcomer.  This one looked ordinary, too, at least compared to everyone else standing about in this bizarre little tableau.  “You’re in trouble again, aren’t you?” asked the ordinary man.

 

Moriarty, who had been as flabbergasted as John was over this turn of events thus far, seized his chance to remind everyone who was in control.  “Yes!  Yes he is in trouble, and if you don’t listen to me – ”

 

“Yes?”  All three of the intruders looked up politely at Moriarty.  Despite the sudden spray of red dots on everyone not named Moriarty, none of them looked particularly upset.  Even Sherlock was going from what John could have sworn was petrified to something that looked a lot more like petulant.  The bow-tie man kept pointing his penlight at things – the bomb vest, the air, the water.  It made a whirring noise.  He frowned, and snapped his fingers.  The open door on the blue box slammed shut.

 

“If you don’t listen to me, my snipers will kill you,” Moriarty finished triumphantly.

 

“I’m sorry, have we met?” asked the bow-tie man.  “I usually know the names of the people threatening me.”

 

The ordinary-looking man scoffed loudly at that statement.  “That’s stretching the truth a bit.”

 

Sherlock sighed.  “That’s Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal and my new arch-nemesis.  This is my flatmate, Dr. John Watson.  John, Jim, meet my parents, Amy and Rory Pond.  And that man standing there with the sonic screwdriver is the Doctor.  Now can we get on with this?”

 

John blinked.  “What – I thought you were a Holmes?”

 

“It’s not like I could use Pond,” huffed Sherlock.  “They only got married three months ago relative to this point in time.”

 

“Yes, did you go to the reception?” asked his mother.   Who looked far too young to have a son as old as Sherlock.  “I did say you and Mycroft could come, provided you timed it after Rory and I left.”

 

“No.  Wedding receptions are boring.”  His mother glared at him.  Grudgingly, Sherlock added, “Mycroft did send a card.”

 

John struggled to keep track of what the hell was going on.  “You haven’t seen your parents since you went to school?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.  They haven’t seen _me **[1]**_.  Time travel, John, do keep up.  From their point of view, I was dropped off,” Sherlock studied his parents closely for a moment, “three weeks ago.  Mummy, only three weeks?  I suppose I should count my blessings that you lasted a whole twenty-one days – sixteen of them on Trantalian VII during the seventy-third dynasty of all times – before it was time to ‘check up’ on me.”

 

John opened his mouth to ask.  Sherlock beat him to it.

 

“Haircuts, John.  I remember their haircuts.  Not to mention that any Trantalian cardigan disintegrates within twenty-four hours of leaving the native atmosphere.”

 

“Eighth dynasty, actually,” the Doctor said cheerfully.  He poked the pool water and licked his finger.  “The seventy-third had a bit of a retro flavor.  Excellent on all other counts as always, Sherlock.”

 

“You’re only encouraging him,” said Rory.  “Sherlock, why are you pointing a gun at someone?” His father used the same tone that John used when asking why there was a head in the refrigerator.  He sounded like he had asked this question a lot, and had yet to be impressed with the answer. 

 

“He started it!”

 

“And you didn’t do anything to encourage it?  Look at the poor man, he’s hyperventilating!”

 

Moriarty was indeed in the process of having hysterics.  He kept saying that this was ruining everything.  Well, John assumed that was what he was saying.  The madman wasn’t precisely coherent. 

 

Sherlock hitched a shoulder in a half-shrug.

 

“You didn’t issue a challenge, or pick a fight, or do anything at all that would lead you here?”  Rory asked while he walked over to where Moriarty was having his nervous breakdown.  “Put your head between your knees, Jim, and take deep breaths.  That’s a good lad.”

 

Another half-shrug to complete the set.

 

“Really?” Rory said skeptically, splitting his attention with ease between his son and the hyperventilating madman.  He kept patting Moriarty on the shoulder and making encouraging noises. 

 

“He kidnapped John!” protested Sherlock.  “That’s – that’s _cheating_.”

 

Rory paused in his interrogation and the Moriarty comforting.  His wife raised an eyebrow at him.  “It’s a good point,” he granted.  “But don’t think this discussion is over.” 

 

Sherlock managed to imply his complete and utter disdain for his father’s opinion with a succinct, “Hmmph.”

 

Amy smiled at John.  “So you’re a doctor?  My son’s wanted one of his very own since he was little.  He used to idolize the Doctor.”  She continued as if Sherlock’s growing embarrassment was inconsequential.  “I’ve always thought that’s why he did that ridiculous thing to his hair.”

 

“It was an accident,” Sherlock said stiffly.  “I was experimenting with Mandrari dye-hounds and one went off.”

 

“Yes, one that incidentally dyed your hair permanently,” Rory said dryly.  “The fact that it happened the day after you declared that the Doctor was the most interesting person in the universe is a coincidence.”

 

“I always wanted to be ginger,” said the Doctor sadly.  He waved his penlight – sonic screwdriver – over the pool.  The light from his tool reflected strangely in the water.

 

There was a moment of silence for Sherlock’s lost gingerhood.  After the appropriate amount of time had passed, Amy said to John, “You seem to be taking this well enough.  First time being kidnapped?  The first time is the worst,” she added sympathetically.

 

“Not the first time,” John admitted, “ but this is easily the strangest.  You’re, uh, time travellers?”

 

“We are indeed!” Amy said.  “Got a time machine and everything.”

 

“ _We_ haven’t got a time machine,” said the Doctor.  He was now prodding the tiled border around the pool with the screwdriver.  “ _I’ve_ got a time machine, and it just happens that I’ve invited you along.”

 

Amy waved a hand dismissively as if that detail didn’t matter at all in the grand scheme of things.  “You’ve been inviting us along for almost twenty-five years,” she pointed out.  “I’d say my boys are more at home on the TARDIS than anywhere else, but for the fact my boys make themselves at home everywhere.”

 

 “Your boys?” John said weakly.

 

“There’s Sherlock, of course, and there’s my oldest son, Mycroft[2].  And there’s those two,” she said, nodding towards her husband and the Doctor.  “I’m always trying to keep them out of trouble.”

 

John struggled to wrap his mind around the fact that this woman was also, apparently, _Mycroft’s_ mother, too.  It didn’t compute.  In all fairness, time travel didn’t really compute either, but since the box had appeared out of nowhere, he was grading reality on a curve at the moment.

 

“That’s nice,” he managed.  “You must be very proud of your sons.”

 

“Of course I am,” she said.  “They’re wonderful children.  When Mycroft was fourteen, he managed to take over the entire Garlaxian Empire when we dropped them off at the starbase arcade.  It was a big help, especially since his father and the Doctor and I were trying to stop them from invading the rest of the quadrant.”

 

Sherlock made a rude noise.

 

“We were also very proud of Sherlock for discovering the money-laundering scheme the arcade manager was running,” Amy added.    

 

“It was an almost perfect con.  Wasn’t like the fate of empires, which was something we did every day.  Boring,” Sherlock muttered.  “I never got what the fuss was about.”

 

“I’m sorry, has everyone forgotten that I’m threatening you?” demanded Moriarty, shrugging off Rory’s ministrations.   “I give the order and my snipers will end this family reunion permanently.”

 

The Doctor sprang up from his examination of the pool.  “Oh, that won’t be happening.  This pool is chock full of Aquifarians and they don’t like fire at all.  There’s a null field around this entire area that would stop any sort of spark going off full stop.  Looks like an invasion force, probably drawn to your lovely watery planet.  Always found that interesting about Earth – you’re almost totally covered in water and yet your dominant species is a bunch of bipedal mammals.  Mammals!  No wonder that the Aquifarians couldn’t resist it.  And now that they’ve noticed that we’ve noticed them,” at that, John realized that the water had formed a giant wave which had consumed the blue box, “I believe the best thing to do is – RUN!”

 

The Doctor had barely finished the sentence when Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and dragged him to the nearest exit.  The Ponds and the Doctor sprinted behind them.  There was a big sound of whooshing water and what might have been a scream. 

 

“So it _was_ the Aquifarians,” mused Sherlock as they hurried down the corridor.  “I knew it.”

 

“What do you mean you knew?” gasped John.

 

“The chlorine smelled wrong.  The fact that the pool was arguably related to Moriarty made it an excellent location for the exchange.  Did you think I didn’t have a plan?”

 

“Less talking,” panted Rory.  “More running!”

 

They ran[3].

 

 

* * *

 

[1] The Pond family does meet for Christmas dinner every year.  It is occasionally in chronological order, and sometimes doesn’t even involve alien invasions.

[2] The naming of Mycroft resulted from not checking the planetary or temporal origins of the baby name books in the Doctor’s library.  Rory wanted to call him Mike, and still does when he’s angry with him

[3] The Aquifarians were handily defeated, but not before their new ally Jim Moriarty managed to steal their vortex manipulator, which he then used to go back in time to do something about these Ponds who RUINED EVERYTHING. John and Sherlock discover this, steal River's vortex manipulator (with River attached), and go back in time to save Sherlock's parents. It works out very nicely and John tells lots of bad Terminator jokes that no one gets, except Rory, years later. The whole thing leaves Amelia with a strong fondness for the name Sherlock.

 


End file.
